Broken Souls
by Ultra-Geek
Summary: There were times, when the wind blew from the west and the sun was setting on the distant horizon, that the Broken Soul allowed himself to close his eyes.  It was as if their spirits wrapped around him and lifted him up


**Title:** Broken Souls

**Author:** Ultra-Geek

**Rating:** T

**Summery:** There were times, when the wind blew from the west and the sun was setting on the distant horizon, that the Broken Soul allowed himself to close his eyes. It was as if their spirits wrapped around him and lifted him up.

**AN:** Just an angsty little plot bunny that wouldn't leave me alone. Beta read by the lovely WritingCritter.

"Grief teaches the steadiest minds to waver."  
Sophocles

There's only so much one soul can take before it breaks.

With every loss, every tragedy, and every almost-got-away, another crack appears. A new scar marring the canvas of innocence lost. Many give into the pull of their grief, their selfish whims of just wanting all of it to just stop. They cease breathing, cease remembering and pretending that they're okay, and cease trying to forget. But some, no matter how damn much they want to break, no matter how they creak and protest from the strains of life, they  
will not collapse.

As he walks into another shabby bar, all the Broken Soul wants to do is forget. Find another drink, another girl, and just stop thinking. Stop remembering. Stop reality for a few precious moments.

He can't deal with it.

The Broken Soul just wants the world to shut up and leave him alone. After all, he shuts up and leaves it alone for the most part, so a little cooperation wouldn't hurt.

Hurt…

The Broken Soul's heart has fallen into a steady throb. It's a never-ending drum beat of pain, reminding him that a boy with hopeful, shining eyes' heart doesn't pump anymore. The eyes that saw everything yet nothing at all don't feel pain anymore. The passionate girl who held them all together can't feel any sting from failure. The old child with scars inside and out won't lash out at the world for a distraction from pain. The warrior who fought with golden fans doesn't run, sending her heartbeat careening with exhilaration. 

She can't anymore.

It's a never-ending montage of memory; one that Broken Soul can't seem to escape. The majority of the time, he doesn't even want to. Because in this world consumed by flame, no one remembers them. No one is allowed too. He can't pass the story of high-pitched giggles over inside jokes and late night heart-to-hearts like he promised them. The ones who can't talk anymore. The ones that he let down. The family that the Broken Soul failed.

He runs from bar to bar, looking for a girl, drink, and a temporary release.

At first, the enemy had sent their best out after the Broken Soul.

But he couldn't allow himself to be taken.

He'd promised the eyes that saw everything and nothing all at once before she slipped away and joined the others that he wouldn't allow himself to be captured. And he could not, no; he **would**not break a promise. Not to her.

There were times, when the wind blew from the west and the sun was setting on the distant horizon, that the Broken Soul allowed himself to close his eyes. It was as if their spirits wrapped around him and lifted him up.

But then he'd be onto the next bar, and the next girl. They thought of him as dangerous. Maybe he was. But they never looked at him for what he was: A temporary fix, a broken heart, and the only trace of his existence the next morning being a hangover.

He wanted to forget. He couldn't allow himself to move on, because then they might disappear. Memories of the warrior with golden fans and carefree nights spent walking together. Bickering with the girl who held them all together, exchanging verbal jabs with the old scarred child, and bantering with the eyes that saw nothing, yet caught everything. He needed to forget, but at the same time he couldn't. If the Broken Soul didn't remember them, then who would?

He soon turned to other releases. Powders and needles and magic cures. But whenever he came down from his trip to the skies, all he could see was their disappointed faces. The eyes would've slapped him over the head and buried the Broken Soul up to his chin in the ground until he shaped up. The girl who held them together would cry, guilting him into getting himself together. She knew that he could never stand to see her cry. The boy with the shining eyes...he would've sighed in a combination ninety-nine point nine percent worry and point zero one disappointment, and ran for reinforcements. The warrior and the old child would've simply beaten him up until he gave in.

That didn't do.

The whole point of the powders and the needles were to forget. But they just made the memories more intense. There was no magic cure for him. There was nothing to dull the shattered edges of his fragile hold on reality.

Occasionally, upon entering a town, eyes filled to their brims with recognition of who he once was land on his face. _Maybe_, the Broken Soul can hear them thinking, _maybe he'll be the one to help us_ _Perhaps_, he hears their minds buzz; _perhaps he'll be the one to end the tyranny._

Its times like these that the Broken Soul walks straight through, eyes down and face gaunt, the villages and towns that desperately need a hero.

He's no savior. The boy with the shining eyes was, and given time, the scarred old child might've become one. But how can someone who can't even save himself, his soul-siblings, and the love that could've been more possibly even stop to consider saving them?   
They need a hero. 

But as far as the Broken Soul is concerned, all of the heroes in the world are dead.

He sleeps in open fields and wooded areas. When it rains, he lifts his head up to the sky, and closes his eyes. It's these times, and these times only, that the Broken Soul allows himself to cry, salty tears mixing with pure rain and running to the muddy ground.

It's after one of those moments that someone comes up to him. The Broken Soul was simply walking. With his black poncho dripping from the recent downpour, and eyes red and bloodshot. The rebel boy and his band of followers had simply stopped on the path. The rebel was quite obviously trying to work out what to say. He starts with simply saying, "…Thank you."

With the exception of moans during the night and exchanges in dark allies, the Broken Soul hasn't talked to anyone in years. "I know you don't want to help us," The rebel boy is continuing. "But we need someone who's fought in real wars and stuff before." The Broken Soul quietly observes the rebel's companions. They range from old farmers to able bodied young teens and willowy children. The rebel boy himself can't be older than thirteen "And I heard a rumor that the General from the War was near here, and well…we really need some help."

Suddenly, the Broken Soul doesn't see the rebel boy and his followers. Blue eyes turn grey, and hair is shaved and a blue arrow blazes blatantly on his forehead. The rebel is the same as the boy with the shining eyes. The Broken Soul knows it as instinctively as if the rebel had just started glowing and tossing fire, earth, wind and water around.

"The Fire Nation…they gotta go, and I was just thinking that you of all people would get that," The rebel boy is saying now. The Broken Soul's face must've changed, because the rebel slaps his forehead in a familiar way that makes the Broken Soul want to laugh and cry at the same time.  
"…I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that…I'm just…I'm sorry,"

The Broken Soul just needed to splinter a little more. For that one splinter, what seemed to be the felling blow, had simply been a blessing in disguise.   
A blessing from the boy with shining eyes, and the girl who held them together.   
A whisper on the wind from the old child who was scarred both outside and in, and the warrior with the golden fans. It was a slap on the back of the head and getting buried up to his chin in rocks by the eyes that saw nothing and everything.

They can't fight anymore. They can't change this. 

But someone could.

With a sad smile, the first in too many years to count, the soul turned to the young rebel. The collected felt their breath catch in their throats. In the man's eyes there was a story. A story of a boy who would die trying to save the world, a story of his soul-family, and a story of the one who had seen it all.

"Will you help us, General?" The rebel prods.

"I'm no damn General," The Soul responds, his voice hoarse from lack of use. "So don't call me that."

"…What?" The rebel's mouth hangs open, and he's obviously not sure what to do. "Then what…I mean, what should I call you?" 

"Sokka," The Healing Soul tells him. "My name is Sokka."

'-,-'-,-'-,-'-,-'


End file.
